Caught
by Dala1
Summary: Anamaria will not be caged. (NorringtonxAnamaria, sort of)


Disclaimer: pirates belong to Disney  
Warning: character death

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They've all heard tales of female pirates, but this is the first one James has come across. The _Dauntless_ happened upon her ship right after it had sunk a French merchantman. Still recovering from battle scars, the little brig was unable to escape them. They took the French prisoners and the pirates as captives, the latter being characteristically quick to give up their captain. She was dark-skinned and fierce, railing at them in several languages even as she surrendered to the weapons pointed at her. The men were unsure about how to deal with her; James had finally strung a hammock in his own cabin for Gillette and made the lieutenant's berth into a temporary cell. She would not give them her name, but her former crew said she was called Anamaria.  
  
During the first twenty-four hours, James tries to speak with her. She willl say nothing, though her dark eyes spark as she lifts her chin into the air. He keeps the cabin under heavy guard, for the men have been long at sea and she is a proud, beautiful thing, for all that she is so violent and unkempt. On the second day, he is bringing her some water and hardtack when she suddenly doubles over in a fit of coughing, bound hands pressed to her belly. When it doesn't recede quickly and she appears to be having trouble breathing, he kneels before her, reaching a hand out to her tangled mop of black hair.  
  
"Miss..." he manages to get out before she moves, quick as a panther and twice as deadly. Her hands scrabble at the front of his breeches before she is able to pull his pistol from his hip. He calls an alarm and she curses roughly, maneuvering deftly to lock her wrists at his throat. The gun is pointing outward, but that matters little; all it would take is a squeeze, and he can feel such strength in her as no woman should possess.  
  
As a guard ducks into the room, she rises from her crouch, half-dragging James to his feet. The young midshipman's mouth falls open in shock.  
  
Shoot her and damn the consequences, thinks James, but her grip tightens on his throat before he can get out more than a choked noise. She turns almost sideways so that the gun points at the guard. Gulping in panic, he holds up his hands and backs slowly out of the cabin.  
  
It's night and Tiersley is the sole officer on watch – of course, she must have planned this carefully. Her forearms grind against his shoulderblades as she draws him close and marches him forward.  
  
"Call for help and the last thing you see'll be yer commodore's death rattle," she growls at the midshipman. He casts fearful eyes upon his commanding officer's face. James tries to shake his head, but the strength borne by Anamaria's slender muscles prevents it. She instructs the trembling man to crouch with his head between his knees and not to get up until he hears a splash. James is growing faint from the lack of air in his lungs. He can barely keep from stumbling as she shoves him over to the side. She withdraws her hands and kicks him in the back of the shin. By the time he has turned, the pistol is trained steadily on him. He has never seen anything like the wildness in her eyes.  
  
He lifts his hands in the air, for he can do his men no good if he is dead – but neither will he be cowed by this pirate, woman or not. "I cannot give you a boat," he says, voice rattling in his chest. "I will not."  
  
She snorts. "I know that. An' the shot will run out long 'fore I can overpower your men. I don't mean t' take the ship."  
  
"Then what –?" He stops abruptly, watching as she hops awkwardly onto the railing, the pistol shaking in her iron grip. It dawns on him slowly and he takes an involuntary step forward. "No, don't –"  
  
The woman bares her teeth in a grin, some strange manner of joy in it. "I'll not be taken t' die at the hands of white men."  
  
"You'll be given a fair trial in Port Royal. You have my word on it." He isn't sure what compels him to argue. Perhaps it is only surprise, because he's never known a pirate to not plead for a few more seconds of life. Except for Jack Sparrow, and he was in fact the only one to receive that boon.   
  
Anamaria's eyes narrow and she tilts her head to one side. "Funny enough that I b'lieve you, but it makes no difference. I'll still hang from a steel cage till there's not enough flesh on me bones f'r the buzzards to peck."  
  
"It is a sin to take one's own life," he whispers. She smirks at that.  
  
"What's one more? An' besides, though I don't pray to your God, I'm liable to think he'd have more issue wit' you lot taking folk as your own property, like you got a right to their bodies an' their blood." Disgust curling her upper lip, she spits on the deck.  
  
"I don't –"_ Own slaves. Endorse the practice. Wish harm to innocents. Enjoy the sight of necks breaking when the rope pulls tight. Sleep soundly at night._ Instead he breaks off and insists, "You don't have to do this."  
  
Her face smooths out, mouth softening until he can almost see the girl she must once have been. "It's my choice. Last choice I'll e'er make, aye, but mine an' no one else's. If you should happen t' see Jack again, tell 'im thanks for the ship." With that, the pistol cracks, firing to the left of his head. He will never know if she meant to kill him or if she missed on purpose, because when he opens his eyes from his reflexive flinch, she is already tumbling back.  
  
He throws himself forward just in time to see her sink beneath the gently rolling waves. The gun went with her and it will fall to the bottom. She'll follow it, kicking hard, until the moonlight disappears above her. By then, she will be deep enough for her lungs to fill twice over by the time she reaches the surface. He can see it as clearly as if he has dived in after her.  
  
When Gillette comes running up in his nightshirt, disturbed by the shot, James gives a truncated account of the night's events. He forbids any of the men from searching for a body. It all likelihood, it bumps against the hull of the _Dauntless_ before the tide carries it farther out to sea.  
  
In his bed he lies fully clothed, staring at the ceiling overhead. His cabin is awash with the scent of her, unwashed and sharp with fear. He can still feel her lips barely brushing his jawbone as she threatened the midshipman, her breasts pressed against his back, the delicate bones of her wrists sharp at his throat. Her voice is shredded silk in his ears, her eyes lit by the fires of desperation and finality. In a curious way, he understands the desire to make her death her own, and so he can't condemn her for it.  
  
He understands. But that does not keep him from dreaming of her face and crying out in horror when he finally sleeps.

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End file.
